A Day In The Life For Joker's Knife
by ClownQween'69
Summary: Ever wonder what Joker's favorite knife thinks about when Joker murders? Wonder what he thinks when he's waiting in his pocket? Well, here's your chance to find out! Short story told in the POV of Joker's knife. Not supposed to be serious, just funny!


**A/n: To help get over writers block, someone suggested this site that gives random prompts to write about. The point is to just pick one and write, write WRITE! Help get those 'creative juices' (ew) flowing, right? So, below is the result of the first random prompt I chose, and let me tell you, I had a lot of fun writing it! Haha, so this is just me, writing to get over writers block, lol. Hope you get a good laugh out of it! Review and tell me what you thought if you want :)  
**

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#328: Write from the point of view of the knife inside a thief's pocket.

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**A Day In The Life For Joker's Knife**

**By _Mizz Peachy_**

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I stare into the darkness of my owner's pocket as I bounce around, due to his long strides as he walks to where ever he was going. Out of his big collection, I was probably the one he used most often. I was his beloved Cupid Blade, his 'Let's Put A Smile On That Face!' knife, and while I knew I was up there with his 'top loves of all time', he most certainly wasn't on mine. He wasn't the one that had to deal with actually slicing open people's flesh, the feeling of their skin splitting, their blood drowning his face. He didn't clean himself by being rubbed into the grass, and he most certainly didn't need to be sharped (and let me tell you, _ouch!_) That's right, you've guessed it. I'm the oh-so-wonderful knife that belongs to The Joker, The Clown, The Clown Prince of Crime, the arrogant bastard who is a complete _freak_, or whatever you want to call him. And let me tell you, it is _**not**_ fun.

Early this morning, I was thrown in my owners pocket. A comfortable pocket, but it would be better if I could fucking breath and didn't bounce around so much. Well, at least it's spacey... Anyway, so after what sounded and felt like a nice car ride into town and a little bit of walking, my master's gloved hand reached in and flicked me out, and I was ready for action! But as usual, (how it usually goes) I was just used as a threat. Lame. Lame, lame, lame, fucking lame. See, I don't enjoy seeing the fear that my owner sees when he places me right by or on someone's face. Instead, my damn face has to go right by or even in someone's mouth, and I'm forced to smell their breath, and when they just got done eating something nasty, forget it. Then I gotta worry about their greasy as skin, or sweat that so tenderly drips down upon my surface. But does my master have to worry about that? No. He doesn't.

See, the thing is, I _like_ being used for his murders, despite how much I complain about the blood. But it makes me feel special. The other knives at home hate me for it, but fuck them. I'm awesome, and they just can't let their steal little brains comprehend that, because they are stupid. So, my point is, I really do like being the _actual_ cause of the murders and slicing of people's face, since you know, I'm the one doing all the work, it's just, hey, being used for a threat is a major Goddamn tease! When he pulls me out of his pocket and flicks me open, man I'm ready to shred some skin! But that's not always the case. And I hate it. You just never know.

So, after we left the stupid bitch's house (we didn't kill her...) he dropped me back in his pocket, leaving me to wonder how long I'd be in there. So now here we were, walking, me bouncing around, wondering where the Hell we are going. I wish that sometimes he'd take me out and just carry me in his hands so I can have some fresh air and see the sights. You know, for living in Gotham my whole life, I've never actually seen the city, like outside. Can you believe that!? I can't. That's fucked up! So while I sit in here, suffocating, he gets to breath in that nice, cool, _fresh_ Gotham air. Not the stale air in this dark pocket that smells like all of his victims combined.

Though, when he washes this big coat, that's always cool. I like getting back in the pocket, because it's all warm and nice, and smells like laundry soap. The only thing is I'm forced to converse with all his other, dull knifes while I wait. They need their own lives man; all they do is ask me questions about where we went, and some even ask what it's like to be sharpened! Dear God! Shut up!

Sorry, anyway, so his pocket right now isn't all nice and soft and clean. I can't tell you the last time he washed this coat. Stupid clown. I hate clowns. Why couldn't I have gone to a normal crook? Oh well. Suddenly, however, I hear a door creek open, and loud screaming that suddenly gets muffled out, and my adrenalin is pumping away! Who's this bitch? I wanna kill her!

"Why, hello there," I heard my owner say darkly. Yadda, yadda yadda. Man, c'mon. I'm sitting here, ready for action, and you gotta do your lame little dark stride over there and use your dark creepy voice in a way to frighten the victim more. I really hate it when he does this... I'm not a patient knife, at all. This is why I really hate him sometimes...

Finally, finally, FINALLY he takes me out, and I smirk at the girls stupid face when she saw me shine beautifully under her kitchen light.

"...see, I don't like getting stood up, sweets," he continued to go on. Yes! I recognize that voice. Surely, she does not stand a chance. I watch as the floor slowly passes from under me, and her big blue eyes are staring down at my gorgeous body, knowing her fate. And man am I gonna give it to her!

With a swift and quick movement I'm suddenly pushed against the bottom of her jawline, and I take a minute to get over the dizziness for it happened so fast. But none the less, he pushes my further into her skin, only for me to suddenly be taken away as he starts talking more. Dammit! Actions are louder than words, asshole!

So now I'm suspended in the air as he loosely holds me away with his hand, and I'm forced to look at one of his fat henchman's ugly face upside down, and let me tell you, he looks worse upside down. If I had finger's, I'd be tapping them while I listen to the clown of my owner go on and on about how he's a nice guy, but doesn't like people playing with them. Well who is he to say that? He plays around with people's emotions and stuff all the time.

Finally, I'm swooshed back to her face, the air feeling good as it runs against me, and he places me in her mouth in the corner of her lips. I sigh, waiting, anticipating, ready to fucking slice this whore's skin apart! But no, of course, I gotta chill in her Goddamn mouth... it smells good though, I can tell she just used mouthwash, and it's a citrus smell. The only downside is the heat of her breath, and the sight, and the annoying yelps escaping from her throat and smacking me in the face. You ever been in someone's mouth? Let me tell you, it's an odd and gross experience. I _really_ feel bad for Joker's toothbrush... (if he even has one)...

I'm about half asleep until I suddenly feel my self start to move to the left, and I feel her soft skin both on the top and bottom of me as I go through! Yes! Finally! Joygasm!

Her screams are loud, but suddenly muffle away as I pass through the other side now, drenched in her crimson blood, and I think in unison with my owner as he says it, that line I know he'll go down in history for: "Let's put a smile on that face!"

Before I know it, it's done, and as he pulls me away I get a quick second to see what _I _have done. Her cheeks are jaggedly split apart on each side as her head lays limp on her right shoulder, blood everywhere. I sigh; it's a beautiful sight. But it goes away quickly for he suddenly turns around, just before we get to the door, I suddenly find myself forced against and carpet, it stinging as I'm rubbed against it rapidly to get all the bitch's blood off of me. Would it kill him to use a cloth?!

And just like that, I'm flicked back inside and dropped carelessly into my pocket of a home as I feel him walk out of the house, down the steps, and into what sounds like a car. So here I am again, stuck in his pocket, wondering, waiting for something to happen.

This is the story of my life...

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End file.
